


A Little Sexy Strangulation Amongst Friends

by eeyore9990



Series: December Gift Fic Spree [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Choking, Knifeplay, M/M, Violent Sex, peter's cleavage, peter's thick neck, peter's v neck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2715449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nothing on earth more infuriating than Peter Hale.  He makes Chris’ blood boil with fury and confusion… but mostly frustration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Sexy Strangulation Amongst Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> December fic spree day three, gift for Snarry4ever!
> 
> Happy December 3rd!

There is nothing on earth more infuriating than Peter Hale. He makes Chris’ blood boil with fury and confusion… but mostly frustration.

He’s sarcastic, always throwing out words that slice deep, his lips all curled up like he’s just relishing the wounds he inflicts. He has no conscience. No limits. He’ll do anything for power.

There is literally not a single redeeming feature about Peter Hale. And yet…

And yet, night after night, Chris dreams of Peter. Dreams filled with teeth and claws and burning blue eyes. Dreams he wakes from with soiled sheets and a sticky, spent cock.

Chris is forty two years old. Before Peter, he hadn’t had a wet dream in over twenty years. Ironically — or maybe not, considering everything — it had been Peter Hale his younger self had moaned over in the middle of the night as well.

The tall, lanky boy with the knowing smirk. The boy whose whispers spoke of dark promises of untold pleasure. The boy who laughed and mocked and set traps for the unsuspecting fools around him. 

All too often, Chris found himself playing the part of Peter’s favorite fool.

But now here they are, older, wiser, both broken in different ways by life. Both having lost… everything. And still, Peter is a thorn in Chris’ side, a splinter under his skin that is so infuriatingly… frustrating.

Around them, the coalition of humans and supernatural talk quietly, discussing the latest horror to be called to this cursed town by the Nemeton. Chris knows he should be taking part in the preparations, should be adding his two cents to the murmured conversation taking place between the sheriff, his deputy, a US marshal, and an FBI agent. 

Instead, he’s leaning against the long, metal table they’ve spread maps across, trying not to be too obvious as he stares across the table at Peter. Or rather, as he stares at the line of Peter’s chest laid bare by the deep v-neck of the shirt he’s wearing. 

Chris is…fascinated. He knows he should look away. Knows he should at least _move_ , but the light keeps shifting as people change positions in the big, open room. With every new shadow, there is the tease of cleavage, and it makes his mouth water.

He wants Peter Hale. He wants to pull that v-neck down to his navel and lick a path down that shadow that separates one half of his chest from the other.

"Looking for my heart, Argent?" Peter murmurs, eyes hooded and lips curved up on one side.

Chris doesn’t jolt, doesn’t drop his eyes or shy away. He doesn’t betray himself outwardly in any way, though he knows his pulse has spiked tellingly. “I wasn’t aware you had one, Hale.”

"Hmm, right you are. Mine was burned out long ago."

And then Chris _does_ flinch, just around the eyes, but he knows Peter sees it. Compressing his mouth into a tight line, Chris pushes away from the table and removes himself from the temptation of putting his hands on Peter — either to fit them around that thick neck and squeeze until the light in his eyes dims or put them on… other parts of his body. 

The night air is cool when he steps out onto the large balcony, and the only light is that which pours from the wall of windows. Finding a shadow to blend into is absurdly easy; Chris leans back against the wall and breathes, letting his eyes slide shut. Of course, the image burned onto the inside of his eyelids is of a smooth, hard chest, dark grey material dipping to a point between two meaty, muscular pectoral muscles that give the illusion of cleavage, topped with almost delicate looking collar bones that make his teeth itch.

Chris curses himself under his breath and pushes off the wall, eyes flying wide to wipe away that fantasy… only to see the object of said fantasy limned in the yellow light that streaks through the windows. “What do you want?” Chris grunts, arms crossing over his chest, right hand within easy distance of the hunting knife he has strapped to his hip.

"I think the question, dear Christopher, is what do _you_ want?” Peter steps closer, his tread completely soundless.

Chris looks down, brow furrowed, to see that Peter is barefoot, the cuffs of his jeans bent over the thin skin at the top of his foot. He can see bones and tendons, and for all the strength Chris _knows_ Peter possesses, these glimpses of delicacy are startling. They throw him off, give him another point of obsession. 

"I can smell your want, Christopher. I’ve _always_ been able to smell it. For the first time in your pitiful life, there is nothing standing in your way: no disapproving father, no psychotic sister, no dutiful wife.”

In seconds, Chris has yanked Peter out of the light to press him against the shadow-wrapped bricks, his knife the only bright spot in the universe as it presses against Peter’s jugular so hard a bead of blood drips onto the silver surface. “Don’t,” he growls, teeth clenched tight in his jaw, “talk about Victoria.”

Peter lifts his chin, _still_ smirking, the bastard. “Slitting my throat won’t stop my tongue.”

Chris fights it, he really does. He fights with everything in him. The only problem is that there’s not much left in him; he’s lost too much. He and Peter are frighteningly similar in that respect. As he fights, though, the cut on Peter’s neck drips blood, and the path it takes is the same that his tongue has wanted to travel for far too long. 

It slides down, so slowly, hits the bone of Peter’s clavicle before travelling inward and then slides right down the center of his chest to disappear beneath his shirt. Mind wiped of thought, Chris dips his head and licks it up, _tastes_ Peter’s blood and skin and feels the crinkle of the light smattering of hair that covers his chest. 

Now that he’s on the wrong side of temptation, Chris lets go of his tight hold on himself and does _everything_ he’s been dreaming of. His beard makes a red, irritated path for his tongue to soothe, and he hears a rip before Peter’s shirt is split to his navel. Murmured words of encouragement wash over him, but he can’t really hear them over the blood that’s rushing in his ears. 

Fingers dig into the back of his skull, grip hard and pull, and then Chris’ open mouth is being _eaten_ by Peter’s, teeth clashing in fury and desire and a thousand unspoken wants. The world spins, brick bites into his back, and a thick thigh is thrust between his legs. In retaliation, Chris drops his knife to wrap his fingers around that neck, squeezing until he hears Peter’s breaths go thin and ragged, until he sees the way Peter’s eyes flare a bright, brittle blue. 

As they rut against each other mindlessly, Chris feels the prick of claws against his ass and grunts, driving his groin almost painfully against Peter’s. They’re both absurdly hard for men their ages, and though Chris can acknowledge the ridiculousness of this situation with one part of his mind, his body is running this show. And his body has been denied long enough.

Their bodies clash and struggle, fight to drag noises and pleasure from each other. Chris’ hands clench harder as his dick begins to pulse in his jeans, and then Peter goes perfectly still against him, all his breath cut off. His eyes are wide, bright spots on his open, red face. And then he’s slumping against Chris, his hips hitching raggedly as he shakes through his own release.

It takes far too long for Chris to remember to let go of Peter, to loosen the grip he has on Peter’s neck. When he finally does, Peter drops the rest of the way, falling to his knees and resting his head against Chris’ hip as he drags tortured breaths past his healing throat. Finally, he looks up, that smirk twisted into something more promising.

Leaning forward, he _licks_ the front of Chris’ jeans and says, “Much as I adore your fascination with knives, that’s not the hard thing I want plunging into me. Just a _pointer_ for next time.” Then he sits back on his heels and brings a hand to his neck, touching the skin. “Although I have no objections to a little sexy strangulation amongst friends.”


End file.
